Enchanted
by Hopelessly Entangled
Summary: Matthew is sick of being in his brother's shadow. Gil is bored and out of interesting work. They meet at a party for someone else in Hollywood. Whatever could go wrong? Other than everything, that is.
1. Of Shadows and Exiting them

**A/N: Well. This is...special? Yeah, let's go with special. It's a collab between my dear friend X Jackson and I, based on the song "Enchanted" by Taylor Swift because I'm just an idiot like that. ...Rated T for the mouths of pretty much everyone, and mentions of underage drinking, and Francis being Francis.  
Human names used.  
We don't own Hetalia.**  
**That being said, enjoy your crappy songfic.**

* * *

Matthew Williams stood at a Hollywood party thrown for the release of his brother's newest album, or movie, or something. What the hell it was, he didn't really care. After the last game (they'd won, and yet again the credit had all gone to that dick Braginsky) he'd kind of lost interest in whatever the hell anything was. He knew he was taking it too seriously. It was just that this "never-being-noticed" thing got a bit _tiring_ after - what, eleven, twelve years? That was at least how long he'd been playing, and that was at least as long as he'd somehow slipped under the radar of the entire world. He leaned back against the nearest wall - this turned out to be a person's back, and he nearly fell as the person walked away. He leaned back against the nearest _real_ wall, and tried to look like he cared, occasionally looking down into a half-empty plastic cup of Coke.

Why was that all that they had? Coke, booze, and water that was likely spiked by one of the drunker folks; probably his brother, actually. Someone passed by, mistaking him for Alfred (sixth time tonight, Matthew was counting) and trying to tell him to cheer up, it was his big debut, and then once they were notified he, in fact, was _not_ the Alfred F. Jones they were looking for, backed off awkwardly. Someone's walking towards him again, and Matt pretends to be the wall.

But this person wasn't here to offer false comfort, or to mistake him for his brother.

"'Sup," said the albino. "You know a way I can sneak a beer or two?"

Obviously, this person was underage - he couldn't be older than Matthew - and there was a distinct air about him; the way he bumped into a few more people than one normally would have in this crowded space, the way he looks a bit unfocused - this told Matthew that whoever this guy was, he already knew 'a way to sneak a beer or two.'

And suddenly Alfred was there. He was shorter than Matthew somehow, but still appeared the same height, if not taller than the albino. "Yo Matt," he says, still pushing his way through the crowd, smiling and greeting the rich people he doesn't know as he goes by. "Long time no see."

_No kidding_, thought Matthew. They'd barely seen each other's faces in the past five years, and he'd probably leave again in a minute for another three or so.

"Surprised your folks brought you down here just for this." Alfred had made it through the crowd, and proceeded to steal Matthew's Coke.

"They didn't really care," Matthew said, making no attempt to get back the stolen beverage. "Just as long as I wanted to be here, and Francis had been hoping to come down here again sometime anyway."

He would have wanted to come more if there hadn't been that game the day before he flew down to LA. Al raised his eyebrows in a 'Francis is here?' motion and Matthew responded with a nod.

"This is Gilbert." Alfred gestured towards the albino, who was at that moment infatuated with a nearby woman's miniskirt. "Also in the show business. To some degree."

Gilbert shrugged. "Not like I get much to do, anyway. Not much of one for movies. I like to be on a stage more than a set." His attention was now away from far too short skirts and on Matthew, sizing up the Canadian with his glasses, hair that hadn't been too well cared for and was now nearing his shoulders, and the odd flyaway curl that seemed bent on defying gravity. He took in the red pullover hoodie, black canvas sneakers and worn-out jeans, and a look in his eyes said that he seemed to approve.

Upon closer inspection, Matthew realized the man was actually more sober than he had thought, because he had a very clear gleam in his eye that basically screamed, "I know exactly what I'm doing and you'd do well to watch your valuables." Surprisingly, the Canadian found himself smiling.

"Matthew Williams, nice to meet you."

Gilbert grinned. "Same. You're not really dressed for a fancy party, are you?"

"I flew down here from Toronto at three in the morning, I do what I want," Matthew grumbled, "not to mention you're not much better." He was wearing a black shirt with the sleeves ripped off (probably in a factory) torn-up, faded jeans, and boots with enough belts on them it seemed like getting them on and off would be impossible. The albino dissolved into laughter.

"Hey, it's fashionable! And you're Canadian? Thought I recognised the accent. You look a lot like Al, though, you cousins or something?"

"No, brothers. We were adopted by different people as kids, but we keep in touch." at this Al grinned at him and took his leave, going off to who-knows where to do who-knows-what stupid thing with someone Matthew likely didn't know. For the first time in a while, though, he found himself not caring in the slightest.

"Well, that's...kinda awesome, actually."

"I guess, although I swear he gets stupider the longer we're apart."

"Al is stupid with or without anyone."

"You make a valid point."

"Hey, you mentioned a Francis earlier. Wouldn't happen to be an insane exibitionist French guy who hits on everything that breathes, would it?"

"Oh, you know my other brother." They were silent for a moment, just staring at each other, before they both burst into laughter of the degree that Matthew grabbed Gil's shoulder for support.

"It says a lot about both him and us that we can recognise him from that," Gil chortled, calming down a bit, "but more about him, I think. He here?"

"Unfortunately. He came to meet up with some friends and piss off Al's boyfriend as much as human-Francis-ly possible."

"Why?"

"He's ridiculously British, Francis is the French stereotype to end all French stereotypes, you do the math."

"...Oh. Oh. _Oh._ Oh God, why the hell did you let them meet?"

"Not my decision."

"I'd hope so."

Their conversation went on in this way for a while, each retaliating the other's sarcastic quips, and Matthew found himself becoming more and more comfortable with Gilbert. It surprised him, really, how easy conversation was with this man, how easy it was to lose himself in his insanity and just let go of his inhibitions around him. After well over forty-five minutes straight of talking, he could safely say Gilbert Beilshmidt knew him as well or better than anyone else in his life.

So when Francis and Antonio(who he knew by default; Gilbert had told him more than he had ever really wanted to know about the three of them) came up and caught the albino in a rapid-fire conversation in a mix of Spanish, French, German, and English, he actually didn't care to decipher it and didn't really mind that they didn't acknowledge him all that much, getting lost in Gilbert's movements and gestures, until Francis spun around, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him into their little circle of conspirators.

"Wha-" Matthew started, but was cut off by Francis, who grabbed his face with perfectly manicured hands and stared at him for a moment before letting him go again.

"_Antonio, vous avez bien raison..._" he muttered, apparently forgetting that Matthew was fluent in French.

"Right about wha-" Francis flicked his hand at him in a way that clearly said, 'shut up.'

"Insignifiant, Matthieu. What matters is..." he leant over and muttered something to Antonio just quietly enough that Matthew couldn't hear anything. The Canadian rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at Gil, who grinned his signature shit-eating grin and shrugged.

Presently the Spaniard and the Frenchman separated, both with cheerful expressions that frankly terrified Matthew. Gil raised his eyebrows.

"Well," Francis practically _sang,_ "have a wonderful evening, you two!" Antonio flashed them a thumbs-up and nodded, before both of them disappeared into the crowd from whence they came, leaving Matthew and Gilbert dumbstruck.

After a few minutes of staring at the spot they had been in a moment prior, Matthew broke the silence. "What the hell just happened?"

"I have no frickin' clue, actually."

"That makes two of us."


	2. Screw Pancake Mix

Matthew opened his eyes groggily, immediately snapping them shut again and covering his face with one arm. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, and it was extremely painful. The Canadian groaned uncomfortably, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the window as though he had the power of The Force to get the curtains to shut.

"Alfred?" he called weakly. He got no response from his twin, and assumed he had wound up going home with his boyfriend rather than staying at his flat, where he was giving Matt residence for the duration of his stay. He damned his brother and his brother's love life, because he was not going to be standing up on his own anytime soon and he was thirsty. He painfully glanced at the digital clock on the bed stand next to him. It was nine thirty in the morning.

When had he gotten home? He had a recollection of accepting a beer from someone, dancing, enjoying himself, and a lot of laughter. At two thirty in the morning or so he had been carried home by Gilbert-_Gilbert!_ The albino had also been smashed when they had came to this flat, and _oh God, this was not Alfred's flat. _He suddenly found himself shocked into sobriety, sitting up with a horrified expression on his face.

The Canadian glanced next to him to the other side of the queen bed, where the sheets were crumpled back in a way that indicated someone else had been there this morning. He pulled himself off the bed, thankful that he was still clothed from last night, and winced slightly at the pain that shot through his head at the movement.

Walking unsteadily to the entrance of the room and steadying himself on the doorframe, he stared around the flat he was in.

It was much like Alfred's, although actually much cleaner, much to Matthew's shock. He turned around, glancing briefly at the room he had slept in. It was organized chaos; everything seemed to be somewhere specific, the walls were covered in posters of various rock bands and movies, except one place directly above the bed where a six-by-ten Prussian flag hung.

He vaguely recalled Gilbert having mentioned Prussia the previous evening as the spoke. Maybe he was at Gilbert's flat...?

He looked up and down the hallway he was in, before tentatively calling, "Gilbert?"

The albino called from down the hall, "Over here. My brother made hangover coffee if you've got one too, but he left for work a while ago." Matthew walked quietly down the hall, eventually reaching a small kitchen, where Gilbert sat nursing a cup with a small yellow bird on his head.

"Morning. What happened yesterday? I can't remember much."

"Neither can I, so it was probably awesome. But I do remember you nearly passing out and me needing to take you _somewhere_, and I didn't know where you were staying, and I was drunk as hell too, so I just took you here. Then we crashed in my room. I woke up at the same time as my brother, unfortunately, about two hours ago, and, well, I've been sitting here since."

"I didn't think of you as the type to be able to sit still for two hours."

Gil gestured to a closed laptop on the table. "I had entertainment. Watched several episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Sleep well?"

Matthew shrugged, pouring a mug of the strong coffee and sitting down. "That show is probably dangerous in high doses. I slept fine, far as I can remember. Why was I in your bed?"

A crooked grin overtook Gilbert's face. "No idea." Matthew stared at him for a moment, before shrugging and taking a long gulp of coffee.

He immediately almost spit it out again before choking it down, completely returning to the present, standing up, and dumping the mug down the drain. He looked the other man in the eye for several seconds, shrugged, and grinned. "D'ya want pancakes instead?"

"...We don't have any pancake mix."

"Screw pancake mix. I'm Canadian."

"...'Kay. Pancakes sound good, actually."

"Of course they do." And the small man set to work, somehow at ease with himself, making his famous (well, famous within his family) pancakes.

A while later, Matthew had found that not only was there no pancake mix, but there was barely enough flour to make pancakes for two people.

"Something wrong with the flour?" said Gilbert, looking up from his god they call YouTube.

"No."

"Why are you staring at it?"

Silence.

"There's nothing left, is there."

"No . . ."

"Of course." Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Lutz bakes. So does my cousin, when he comes over. I can go get some more," he adds.

"No," said Matthew hurriedly, "It's fine. This is enough if I don't eat as much as usual, which I wasn't planning on anyway because I was ridiculously drunk last night."

"Huh. For me, that usually makes me hungrier."

Matthew's phone rang. He hadn't realized it was still in his back pocket.

"Hello?

"_Yo Matt._"

"Oh, hi, Al."

"_Where are you?_"

Matt glanced over at Gilbert, now engrossed with the Internet once again. "Somehow I ended up in Gil's house. Say nothing. And you?"

"_I'm with Arthur. Trying to choke down some of his cooking._"

"Great. Is that the entire reason why you called?"

"_Maybe._"

"This has been a wasted five minutes of my life_THEPANCAKESAREBURNING - _"

Matthew automatically hung up and went to flip over the pancakes.

"Nice call," said Gilbert.

"Of course. They're pancakes. Pancakes are like a second, I don't know, soul to me. Again, I'm Canadian."

"So you eat them?"

"Shut up and let me cook."

Of course, Gilbert being Gilbert dictated that he was incapable, in fact, of shutting up for over seventeen and a half seconds. "So, Matt..."

"What do you want."

"Matthew..."

"WHAT. Do. You. Want."

Gilbert, being an idiot, deemed it an appropriate time to forget utterly what he was thinking and sing. "I wanna wanna know what love is-"

"Wha-"

"I want you to shooooowwwww meeee~"

"What-"

"I wanna feel what love is~"

"The fuck-"

"I know you can shooow meee~"

"Gil, are you still drunk or some-"

"Aaah woah oh ohhhhhhh"

"Gil-"

"Okay, I'm done. But I did forget my original question."

"Well done." With these words, he flipped the last pancake onto a plate and handed aforementioned dish to Gilbert with a look that would have made Arthur Kirkland proud.

"But seriously, Matt, we need to hang out together again before you go back to Canada. When do you leave?"

"Week from tomorrow." He grimaced. "Apparently Francis wants to loot the LA shopping malls. Our parents learned to fear him after the incident with the frog, the Pixie Stick, and the twenty-seven rubber bands."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

"You don't want to know. Trust me. That poor tarsier will never be the same again." He heaved a great and far-too-serious sigh at these words.

Gilbert raised his other eyebrow. "Tarsier? The fuck is that?"

"A type of huge-eyed-monkey-lemur-thing. They live on an island off of Africa."

"Oh, okay. Makes sense that that would be in Canada, then. Where was this even? The Biosphere or something?"

"Home, actually, and I was seven. We lived in France at that point."

"And it makes an equal amount of sense that it would be in France. Completely understandable."

"Well...um...I don't really know either, to be entirely honest. Maybe it's got similar biological structure to the teleporting roses."

"Wait just a sec. You were _seven_? Holy shit."

"Are you surprised that I had a childhood? Did you think I was born fifteen or something? I wouldn't put it past you."

"Actually, I was just thinking that that would leave serious scars. More serious than if Feli discovered my brother's porn stash."

"...Who's Feli?"

"Oh, forgot to say—he's Ludwig's fiance. Incredibly _weird_ fiance."

"_Feli_ is not a very masculine name."

"I just call him Feli. Because he's adorable and needs a cute name. His full name is Feliciano Vargas. And did you just take it on the spot that Ludwig was gay? Good guesswork there."

"Feliciano's a cute name. You can't be saying he's _that_ cute. You said _he_ when referring to the guy, but yes, I noticed yesterday when I saw him staring at that hyper little Italian's ass. I take it that was Feli?"

"Oh. Okay. Right. Forgot. And he is that cute, honestly. Super adorable. Like, amazingly adorable. So of course, 'that' was Feli."

"Tell me you're not jealous of your brother."

"Oh God, no, I would not be able to put up with that for long periods of time. He's always, like, 'veh, Ludwig, what's a insert-vaguely-embarrassing-noun-here?' and asking him to tie his shoelaces and stuff. It's endearing for about twenty minutes.

"He's still fucking adorable," said Gilbert, gesticulating slightly with one hand. Apparently, that was the best thing about Feliciano, as he didn't move to defend the Italian further.

Gil had somehow over the span of this conversation eaten all five of his own pancakes and was doing his best impression of a vulture as he looked at Matt's. "...You gonna eat that?" he said, pointing at the last pancake with his fork. The Canadian laughed and shoved it at him.

"Here."

"YES."

"I would say you're worse than Al, except you actually ask."

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

"Well, it certainly wasn't an insult."

* * *

**AN: Well this took a while.**

**I didn't mean for it to, but I went to camp for two weeks and then I went away for another one after that.**

**Sorryyy.**

**I think this story speaks for itself, to be honest.**

**I don't own Mattie or Gillie.**

**Unfortunately.**

**Although it might be** creepy** to own them.**

**AUTHOR OUT**


	3. Kid's Meal

Two days later, Matthew Williams sat at his brother's kitchen table twirling his hair on one finger and staring at his computer screen, reading an email from a friend from home, when a Skype alert went off, indicating that someone was talking to him. He clicked over to the window, and, unsurprisingly, saw about thirty or forty identical messages from Gil—"Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt..." etc., etc.

'_**What**__?'_

'_He lives!'_

'_Shut up.'_

'_Lolno. Annoying you is awesome.'_

'_I do not think that word means what you think it means.'_

'_it means __**exactly**_ _what I think it means.'_

'_I see.'_

'_awesome.'_

'_Shut up.'_

'_no.'_

'_What do you even want, Gil.'_

That he was annoyed with the German was, of course, utter bullshit—over the last few days he had found pretty much any excuse to talk to him he could and used it. Gilbert's antics, were, in short, addicting.

'_Feliciano's over and it is loud and slightly insanity inducing. Come rescue me.'_

'_You're already insane.'_

'_That is of no importance to this conversation. I'm bored. Get your ass over here.'_

'_What if I don't know where your flat is?'_

'_Then I would tell you, but since you do…'_

'…_Damn it.'_

'_Gil: 7 Matt: 6. I'm awesome._

'_Your move, Birdie'_

'_Birdie?'_

'_Yes.'_

'_Fuck you, hoser. Be there in 5.'_

'_YES.'_

Matthew closed his laptop unceremoniously with a grin on his face. "Al, I'm going out, not sure when I'll be back, don't wait up. See you!"

"Beilschmidt _again,_ Matt? Are you, like, trying to get into his pants or something?"

"No, you asshole! He's a friend!"

"Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight."

Matthew grabbed his wallet, stuffed it in his pocket, and dashed out the door without replying. He flew down the stairs and onto the street, hailing one of the ten thousand cabs that seemed to be passing by. After telling the driver where to go, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text message.

Gil—in cab. Fuck you with a large cylindrical object. Preferably a rusty, sharp one.

Was that an insult or are you just really kinky?

Disgusting, Gil, disgusting. That was an insult.

Just checking. I have a really creepy ex to whom that would have been an invitation.

WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS.

I dunno. Are you here yet?

You sound like a 6 year old

Your mom sounds like a 6 year old

Okay, now you're 11

LOL

Ah, here I am. I see you waiting outside. Stay.

This I can do

Gilbert pocketed his phone and waved to Matthew, who had just gotten out of the cab and tipped the driver.

"Mattie!"

"Never call me that again ever." The Canadian said with a smile, walking over.

"I make no promises and break no promises."

"And again, fuck you with a large cylindrical object." Gil raised his eyebrows suggestively and smirked. "No. Asshat."

"I love that word. It's an awesome word. Asshat. I mean, wouldn't it be awesome to see someone who actually had a hat shaped like an ass?"

"It kinda would, actually. I mean, if I just saw one on the street, I'd probably do a double-take and possibly comically spit out whatever convenient drink I was indulging in at the mere sight. So…what should we do today?"

"Something different than what we did yesterday?"

"Well, duh. We sat in your room and watched twelve hours of BBC yesterday. Feliciano being over puts a damper on that."

"Good point. Hmm…" Gilbert glanced at his phone again. "It's ten thirty. Want to go to a matinee and then just skip around the inside of the cinema for a while and hope something good's starting as we finish?"

"That's illegal, isn't it?"

"What's your point?"

"I love it. Shall we go?"

"That's what I thought."

Six hours and three movies after that, the duo walked out of the theater. Gilbert, who was naturally more photosensitive anyway, shrieked at the afternoon sunlight. "Oh my Gott, the light, it burns! Burns!" He covered his face with his arms, pretending to fall backward onto the ground in pain. "I am going to go blind and then I will not find the perfect wife and have 2.5 children and a dog and live a happy sedated life whilst forgetting about my awesome childhood! Instead I shall be forced to be an angsty albino blind singer thing with a triple keyboard and a seeing-eye polar bear stolen from his best friend."

"Poor baby. I would comfort you in your pain if I could see jack shit. Unfortunately…" As their vision began to adjust, they laughed. "Oh, there you are. That was fun. So, d'you think we should go get lunch?

"It's four in the afternoon."

"How about Burger King?"

"Why the hell not."

"Be honest, you're going to get a kid's meal just for the My Little Pony toy, aren't you?"

"You've got me all figured out."

* * *

**A/N: Many of the conversations in this chapter are inspired by ones I have with my friends.**

**Such as "I will not get married and have 2.5 kids and a dog, instead being forced to be an angsty blind singer with a triple keyboard and a seeing-eye XXX stolen from her best friend."  
**

**And "You're going to get a kid's meal."  
**

**Sorry this chapter's so short—I am recovering from severe writer's block and it felt like a good place to end the chapter.  
**

**Luckily for the fandom, I do not own any characters.  
**

**Although I do own the story.  
**

**And all its bullshit.  
**

**I should probably go now.  
**


	4. When In LA

The following week flew by with all the stunning _oh-holy-shit-where-did-my-vacation-go_ that befitted elementary school summer break and little else; a day before it was fit to end Alfred threw a bitchfit about the amount of time Matthew was spending with Gilbert—which was, admittedly, a lot.

"_Matt._"

Matthew glanced up at his brother only for a moment before returning his gaze to his cell phone. Uninterested, he sighed. "No, Alfred, I did not hide the maple syrup, I euthanized it due to its utter lack of quality. Now go away."

"I-"

"Begone."

"This is more important than the goddamn maple syrup!"

Matthew actually looked at him. Briefly. "Nothing is more important than maple syrup, Alfred, we have been over this before."

Alfred stuck his tongue out at his twin before continuing. "Matt, it is becoming increasingly obvious to me that-"

"Do you even understand the syllables that are coming from your mouth?"

"Does it matter whether I know them or not?"

"Kinda."

"Bleah. Anyway, it's so obvious it hurts, Matt, and it is ruining you."

Violet eyes locked on blue ones. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Matthew slowly shifted to a sitting position from where he had been lying on the couch, never once breaking eye contact.

"...What?"

Alfred smacked his forehead. "You, Mattie, are totally head-over-heels, which is a really weird phrase because our heads are kinda always above our heels, but I digress, for a weird albino German assfuck who used to be in a band with Francis.

"Look at your life, look at your choices.

"What are you _doing_, Matthew, what are you attempting to achieve?" Alfred stopped, staring at his brother.

"...He's not German, he's Prussian, and he's very touchy about it."

"And that is what you get from that whole fucking speech. Matt, I thought you were the smart twin."

"I am. You are simply too much of an incompetent failure to understand when someone is avoiding participating in a discussion with you which, frankly, is completely inconsequential to either of our lives at this moment."

"...I can use big words too, you know." At this Matthew sighed, typed something quickly to whoever he was texting (_gee, what a mystery_, Alfred thought,) and switched his phone off, standing up and grabbing his brother's shoulders.

"Al, I am going to go out now, and you are not going to follow me like you did yesterday, and you are going to call your insane British boyfriend and have him make shitty scones for you and you are going to _chill._ Got it?" He stared at his brother as he said this, making him as uncomfortable as possible. Alfred scowled.

"Yes, Mom, I won't stalk you and your insane German boyfriend."

"Prussian. And he is not my boyfriend."

"Oh, I'm sorry, here I thought Prussia was dissolved near a century ago.

"Also you two are totally going out, there is no other word for what you are doing."

"I know it was dissolved, and it's still a sore subject for him, and yes there is it is called _hanging out with a friend_, get it through your skull, turn around, and call Arthur or else I'm calling him for you."

"Have a good time on your date, brother dearest!" Alfred said as he pushed his brother to the door.

"Fuck you, Alfred!"

"Eew, no! Go away!"

And so he did.

* * *

"Gilbert, I fucking despise my brother." This was said through a slurpee, thus sounding more like "Glrrr, I fmmr depps m brtl."

"...What?"

Matt swallowed. "I hate my brother."

"Which one?"

"The one that doesn't work at Victoria's Secret."

"Why do you hate Alfred, Matt? Do tell." Matthew snorted.

"Well, he's really obsessed with my love life. Why is my younger twin brother who lives a thousand miles away from me obsessed with my love life, Gil? Why is this a thing?"

Gilbert laughed. "When in L.A., do as the bitches do. Which is to say obsess over love lives of people who would really like to have their privacy, thank you very much, but don't because paparazzi."

"Welp."

"Yes. It is highly disheartening, but we plow through it because being a superstar is awesome to the highest degree."

"I...see. Awesome. Right."

"Damn straight." Gilbert smiled at him. It was a cocky grin, but it had less of the usual assholiness and more friendly affection then when they had met. "Honestly, if I were you I'd be glad that the news passed over me after every game—fans are bitches. Has anyone ever run up to you or someone you were talking with and just started screaming? There are two types of screaming. One is the fan-of-the-you type, where they just shriek about how you are totes their fave and how you should marry them and have a million little superstar babies and have sex with them and sign their vaginas — or dicks, come to think of it, had that happen once too — and shit. Those fans are weird but tolerable to a degree."

Matthew, about halfway through this spiel, lost track of the words and just watched him talk—the way his tongue, stained blue from his drink, moved, the gestures he made as he described things, the various states of revulsion his face took on as he spoke.

"Then there are the haters. The ones that just scream and scream and say how you're a horrible human being and deserve to get devoured by a rabid chinchilla just because you didn't get together with a girl who all the tabloids expected you to, or because you ruined music, or because you are a faggot who is going to burn in hell, or whatever, and they grab at you and try to kill you and stab you with pencils until you leave or get security involved." He shuddered, then grinned at the Canadian with one of his blinding, real, grins. "Creepy-ass motherfuckers, the ones that grab you."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. Out of curiosity, how come I haven't seen a media flood about how you're now the forbidden lover of my brother or something similar? Because we have been spending enough time together to alert the presses to my existence."

Gilbert blinked at him. "I don't know, actually. Usually the paparazzi would be smothering us by now about my gayitude, which has been obvious since the first time I went on stage in sparkly eyeliner and skinny jeans," Matthew laughs, "But for some reason it's not happening. Maybe God decided he'd be nice to me and send me a camera-repelling angel to chat with. I dunno."

"Please. I'm hardly an angel. If anything, Satan has sent me here to purchase your soul with a few measly pancakes, which was wonderfully easy."

"What, Matt, do you only like me for my soul? I'm hurt!"

"Yes, I have been using you this whole time. I am leaving now I have what I came for, and I'm taking your eternal soul with me!" Matthew cackled. Other patrons of the 7-11 front patio glanced over at him.

"What? No, Birdie, you can't do this to me!"

"Watch me!"

"But Matthew, _what about the baby?_"

"...I'll take its eternal soul too, how about it."

"You horrible human being!" at this they both burst into laughter that was totally unbecoming of two grown men, which was sort of reminiscent of prepubescent girls giggling about makeup, but they were manly so it wasn't.

As they sobered up, Matthew sighed.

"What is it, Matt?"

"I'm leaving _tomorrow_, Gil, what am I going to do without your corrupting influence on my otherwise spotlessly innocent existence?" he had worded it as a joke, but it came out more honest than he had hoped it would.

"Fuck that, we are going shopping because you need better shoes and you are going to not think about it. _Kommen._" Gilbert stood and grabbed his wrist, pulling him out of his chair.

"Hey, I like my shoes!"

"Nope, we are getting you better ones whether you like it or not, because if your clothes are going to hope to compare to how pretty you are there should not be frays in the crappy red canvas."

"Well, I guess if you-wait, _pretty_?"

This was not going to go over well because Gilbert saying that he was pretty had way more of an effect than it should have and oh _shit_, Alfred was right, but he couldn't say that, wouldn't, because that would be telling and Matthew is not just going to confess his undying love for someone he only met a week ago, damn it, even if he is nice and understanding and doesn't forget about Matthew and likes to talk to him and gives him the time of day and is so unbearably _gorgeous_ with his snow white hair and stunningly red eyes and that smile that could light up the entirety of Pluto whilst sitting on Mercury and make the sun look dim, because there is just _no way _that Matthew Williams fell for his adoptive brother's best friend who had dated a psychopath and _oh fuck it who was he kidding he was totally in love with the guy._

"Um...Well, yeah, I mean, you're awesome and you have naturally purple eyes and really nice hair and stuff, so I think 'pretty' is kind of accurate, uh..." it took Matthew a moment to register that the other had responded in the first place, and then to absorb what he said.

_Gilbert legitimately thought he was pretty._ Damn it, he felt like a sixth-grader. A sixth-grade _girl._ A sixth-grade girl with a _crush._

Shit.

He had to hide this.

"Fuck you, I'm manly. Look at this manly hair. See how glorious it is?" He flipped it for good measure and shoved his maybe-kind-of-crush-boyfriend-thing with his shoulder.

"Glorious, yeah, if you're on the front cover of _Seventeen._"

"I have the same hairstyle as Thor!"

"The Norse god?"

"No, the Marvel character. Good guess though."

"...Oh. Still belongs on _Seventeen._"

They had a wonderful time attempting to find shoes that pleased both of them—price didn't matter as Matthew was still rolling in cash from the latest international game's payoff—and they wound up purchasing no less than three T-shirts, six hats, two jackets, seven necklaces, countless pairs of underwear in various garish technicolor shades of every color on any spectrum ever, eighteen pairs of pants, one miniskirt, two slightly-less-mini-skirts, one dress, twenty-three bobbles, nineteen doodads, and forty-five different types of candy.

Oh, and two pairs of sinfully comfortable shoes, one red and black and the other white and black, both with horribly hipster-esque checkerboard patterns, but those didn't matter at all.

They did see Francis at the shopping mall, but he didn't see them as he was at the time tearfully reconciling with the family of a once-beloved tarsier from the past, but that is a story for another time, children, and Mommy and I will tell you when you're older. Matthew turned slowly on his heel and walked in the other direction, and Gilbert followed suit.

"Matt?"

"Yeah?" It was now nearing ten PM, and all of the stores they had been looting had closed, but they were still wandering the streets talking.

"I'm really glad you came to LA this week. It's been great being an annoying douchebag to someone for a whole week without repercussions. I mean, really."

"You're not a douchebag."

"Suuuure."

"Okay, maybe just a little bit of a douchebag. We should probably eat something."

"Probably."

They were silent for awhile.

"Oh, fuck it, let's go to your place and I'll make pancakes."

"Yes."

* * *

**AN: Welp. I've had this done for a while, but I kept putting off posting it for reasons unknown.  
**

**...Can you guys tell I've been reading Homestuck from the way I'm rambling throughout this chapter? Yes? Okay.  
**

**Anyway, I'd really love feedback—please do review, and don't hesitate to say what's wrong with my writing! It's helpful, and although I don't always do as people ask, I like to have the feedback to consider.  
**

**Seriously, honest reviews help. Sorry for this AN running on so long, and have a nice day, everyone. I'll update soon.  
**


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